


Exsanguinate

by CallMeHopeless (IAmNotBread)



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Alluded To Animal Abuse As A Child (In Typical Psychopathy Fashion), Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Arson, Asphyxiation, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bruises, Chaining To Headboard, Chains, Choking, Creepy Paterson, Dark, Darkfic, Dismemberment, Distressed Reader, Drug Use, Drugging, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Imprisonment, Murder, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Violence, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Paterson Is Gaslighting Her Pretty Badly, Predator/Prey, Psychological Torture, Sexual Pleasure From Violence, Somnophilia, Stabbing, Stalking, Strangulation, Torture, severed body parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23093293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotBread/pseuds/CallMeHopeless
Summary: Paterson's new passenger becomes something of a dangerous infatuation.There are cracks in every soul.That's how the dark gets in.(A Paterson darkfic in which a seemingly sweet bus driver has no gripes with brutally murdering any obstacles between him and a woman who hardly knows he exists)
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Comments: 43
Kudos: 237





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I've told this story a few times, but I'll bring those of you coming in for the first time up to speed.
> 
> I'm not stereotypically a darkfic writer. But, y'know, we watched Paterson one night on Discord and my friend Helloimindelaware and I just could not shake the vibe that Paterson had this creepy, serial killer undertone. I told the humans of Tumblr of this bizarre concept and you all went CRAZY for it, so I'm writing it now
> 
> A prewarning: if you've clicked through to this fic, you may be just here for the morbid curiosity. You may just be like "maybe this will be not as fucked up as the tags make it out to be!" because I do tend to go HAM on my tags to keep you all informed
> 
> I BEG YOU TO READ THE TAGS CLOSELY BECAUSE YO, THIS FIC KICKS OFF BY BEING DISTURBING AND IT GETS WORSE FROM THERE. This is my biggest test yet of "is it possible? Do we have the technology?" so I'm pleading with you to read the tags, to go into this knowing full well what will be involved will be disgusting, will be abhorrent, and will be sickening. It's not going to tread lightly on these topics. It's going to smack you in the fucking face like a 9 Iron in a golf club hurricane
> 
> Consider you scrolling down at this point to be you consenting to the shitfuckery you're about to read with your own eye meats, and if at any point you feel this is too much: exit for your own sanity and go read one of my many other, soft cute fluffy fics or smutty ones
> 
> I love you all!
> 
> AND NOW THE FORMALITY IS OVER
> 
> LETS GET THIS SHOW ON THE PROVERBIAL ROAD

He likes the throats the best.

 _Pretty_.

Columns of sinew that hold a pulse he feels flutter: like a key to life he can see in a lock. The skin there is thin as paper - so easily bruised that a kiss can do the trick. Can make dark clouds bloom on the skin as the blood rushes just below the surface, lending itself right in the place where his teeth run along the warmth.

He likes the way they tremble. Likes the sound when they swallow. Wet, pierced by a heartbeat that pushes blood from their chest up to their brain.

But what Paterson likes the most?

The sounds they make when he crushes it.

Gurgling on air; they claw at him with blunt fingernails, bodies shaking when he presses too hard. He likes the struggle - likes the fact he can let go for a moment and watch them gasp and hack, half-believing he'll stop and let them run.

They always try to run.

They don't make it very far.

Oxygen being cut off makes them dizzy; bruises all down their jaws mark them in dim light when they stumble around. Sometimes they're crying - babbling like stupid fucking children, like a sack of screaming cats being tossed around. In theory, the crying's not so bad: but the sound of it usually gets him distracted from all the excitement. Sometimes he considers gagging them, but the begging's good enough to make up for the pathetic whining.

So he doesn't. He lets them crawl around making a racket, howling through these half-choked sounds. Some of them don't really put up much struggle; some of them try to fight him.

He's not really got much of a preference either way.

He just wants them to stay alive long enough to lose all hope. 

Renounce their gods and their idols and their dreams. He wants them to lose all sense of a world externally to this: to lose any reality other than the one where he's squeezing, where he's draining the life from their eyes. Wants them to feel nothing but this blind fear that he's got them in his grasp so tight they'll crush under the weight of him - he wants them to think he'll give them the mercy of letting them finally die just to bring that hope back again.

And keep taking it away.

* * *

Winter's cold in New Jersey this year.

The bus needs more repairs than usual, and Paterson's thinking the council might scrap it for spare parts sometime soon. A newer model might be nice - he saw some fancier looking ones on his trip to Delaware last year, and he's interested to see whether they'll pull the same schtick and upgrade to the better stuff. Made in Brazil nowadays, he thinks. This one's made local, which is probably why it runs like crap.

Outsourcing's the smart thing to do. Nothing around here works like it should.

The wipers go as he pulls over; wringing his lips when a few locals get on. One guy smells of cheap alcohol in the evening air - hardly something surprising on this run, considering the streets he's pulling down. The less upmarket end of town, he muses to himself.

He eyes the doors as a girl runs up the steps; grabs the pole until her knuckles change colour. She's wearing an oversized sweater and these knotted headphones dangling from her collar; she's pretty, and he's not quite sure why that is.

He rarely finds them pretty. Hot, maybe. Good assets.

Pretty's different, and so he's already straightening in his seat.

She fumbles in her pockets and pulls out some loose change, putting it on the little counter as it rattles while the engine idles. Snow melts in her hair; she shifts, and he sees a worn copy of a book sticking out of her satchel.

_The Catcher in the Rye._

Whiny, but tasteful. He's got a fondness for a lot of it: articulates well the curiosity of society. It's not the sort of thing he's normally into, but the way the red cover is bent out of fashion just enough to keep his eyes lingering on it makes his lips press tighter together.

He takes the change with a feigned half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and she returns it.

"You ever read it?" she asks, her voice shivery as she runs her hands over the thick fabric of her sweater. Stripes go all the way up; cream and red, like the stripes on an ice cream his ex-wife used to buy a lot of.

Paterson counts the change, then hands her back five cents. He's used to math being off.

"Yeah, once. Way, way back."

She bites her lip just enough to have it change colour under the weight of her tooth, and something about that just sticks in his mind. Right under her skin, there's a pooling he can't see - those cells, moving to accommodate something almost insignificant.

She smiles again, taking the change and slipping it loosely into her satchel.

"You liked it?" And it's hopeful - it's very hopeful.

He runs a hand through his dark hair out of habit.

"Sort of. A bit overdone with the angst," he eyes the snowy sky, watching as the flakes twirl down. "Melodramatic."

She scuffs her feet along the sticky bus floor, playing with the strap on her bag.

"I'm finding it good. Refreshing. The characters are pretty fleshed out, but...I can see your point." She laughs, all clouding her breath in the cool air. "It's been linked to serial killers, you know. Copies of it being carried by shooters and stuff."

He _did_ know that.

"No, I didn't. That's pretty fascinating."

He forces a smile right up to the corners of his eyes, crinkling them the way hers did. Dimples press into his cheeks hard enough that the muscles hurt; she waves sheepishly and takes a seat right near the front. Paterson closes the doors with a flick of the switch and pulls away from the stop; engine rumbling as the wipers push away the snow gathered on the windows.

And he can't help but let his eyes dart to the mirror.

She leans against the window; idly studying the pages of her novel, one earbud playing quiet music in the busy bus. The more he looks, the more he sees: sees the way a strand of her hair sticks out from behind her ear. Sees the way she chews her cheek just so; sees how her eyes reflect the glossy white outside.

Paterson notices every one of these things.

His mind wanders - wanders to what he wishes he were doing right now. Wanders to the little book he keeps tucked away in the glovebox; moves to the contents he'll never dare to show a soul.

Thinks of what he'd be doing if this bus was barren. Empty, but for him and her: just her, leafing through a novel in the icy weather.

He bets she'd look so pretty with his hands on her throat.

Bets she'd make a pretty picture; his, and only his. He bets she'd like his cock - thinks of how she'd gag on it, drooling spit down the head when he fucks between her painted lips.

And so, right then and there, on that snowy winter day: Paterson decides he'll have her. He'll have her, and keep her, and make her his own. She'll keep him company; she'll care for him. Fuck him raw: let him use her, body and soul. He'll show her the contents of that little book: she'll understand.

But first? 

He's got to show her.

Show her just how much he loves her.

And oh; he loves her.

So, _so_ much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know that was short but I really just wanted to test the water before writing you guys big, long chapters since this is a foray into the unknown for me
> 
> I hope you are sufficiently creeped out and interested because YOU SHOULD BE
> 
> We goin places
> 
> Also the title is...relevant...
> 
> [Come give me love on Tumblr, guys!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	2. More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She loves him.  
> Don't worry - she just hasn't realised it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paterson really just has no fucks left to give, does he

He doesn't read the newspapers.

Tabloid gossip, conjecture - all on repeats in the fine prints between the lines. Paterson's not a fan of the photographs they use, either. The way they always frame up passport sized polaroids of _her_ at graduation, of _him_ at work Christmas parties.

Filtering smiles and bitten down feelings aren't _real_ : they're just another way of people feeling like they're doing something, when another traveler goes missing out by the highway.

Only he gets to see them as they are.

It's a precious gift, and he'll never stop accepting it.

But _she_ spools through them, and so he supposes he's ok with them, too.

"Sawful sad, ain't it?"

One of the locals, Jim: he leans in as she sets down her crinkled newspaper. Jim's teeth grind, and Paterson's head tips as he listens in the quiet of the bus. Not many passengers today; blustery out, and slippery roads mean those who can stay indoors do so.

Hard time of year to find anyone left alone, these months.

"I think I met her, once. She lived a few towns over: used to come to the deli I worked at in high school." She wrings her lips, her voice pulled tight. "You never think it'll happen, in a place like this."

Stephanie Chambers. He remembers she had pretty brown hair; silky, likes waves of milky chocolate he could drift is fingertips through.

She cried when he sliced her fingertips; when she made this scream for mercy, Paterson got too lost in the excitement. Slit her throat to see her pretty neck rip and twist; sprayed himself with blood, killing her instantly.

Messy. Stupid and messy. The high is always the dangerous part - if he doesn't temper the excitement filtering into his lungs, he'll kill them too quickly without thought or reason. Then all he's left with is a cold, suspicious looking corpse: lacerated in all the wrong places.

A waste. Such a waste.

He'd keep the bodies if he could; not for anything _perverse_. The thought of that is disgusting enough to turn his stomach: a bastardisation of the art form, he thinks. A trope played out in bloodthirsty, gratuitous films to make it all feel _stranger_.

But he likes to keep the trophies. Likes the bodies where he can see them.

Never gets to keep them for longer than a few hours, though; but the high of driving around with a corpse in his boot is enough to make his heart pound.

"S'a strange time t'be livin' in, these 'ol days."

_Sure is, Jim._

The bus pulls up in the dark; windscreen wipers pushing off the frost as Jim stumbles off the bus. A few more passengers follow, mumbling their placating 'goodbyes' to Paterson, and the doors slowly push shut.

And that very same excitement kicks right through his gut when he looks back in the real mirror and sees it's just her.

Just her, and just him.

Lovers united, at last.

He could do it - could just push down on the gas. She'd beg him to stop, though - she'd cry, and scream, and there'd be no way on Heaven or Earth he'd get out of this town and convince her of his good intentions. No way he'd be able to dodge his way out of prison, when they'd search his house.

He's good at disposing of evidence.

But souvenirs? They're _his_ things.

Paterson rubs his jaw, running his fingers along the stubble. Could take her out onto the street: tell her he wants to take her to dinner. Lead her back to his house in the cold night.

There's a radiator in his office with cuffs still tucked under the bookshelf; could strap her to it until she _knows_ how much he loves her.

Cogs turn, and Paterson's mouth waters at the thought.

"Does make you nervous, doesn't it?"

Her voice is almost musical as she moves forward to the seat closest to his; a waft of lavender perfume curling in his nose. Paterson pulls the bus away from the curb, and he tries to keep his hands tightly clutched to the steering wheel.

Tries not to think of his hands on her pretty little throat.

"About what?" his voice is gruff; jaw working as the bus pushes into the empty road. He knows about what - of course he does.

The game's half the fun, though, and he can't help but play it out.

"They're saying it could've been murder, you know. Out on the highway. Found her body all..."

Chopped up. Hacked until it looked like it could've been a bear attack; could've been wild animals. Broken and smashed up; could've been just a tragic happenstance.

But the neck slicing is hard to explain away, and the cops know it.

"That's pretty awful," he says, without missing a beat. "It's such a tragic thing - and so young, too."

His dark eyes glance into the mirror; watching her tug at the sleeve of her cardigan. He wonders if she's ever been touched before - really touched, really held by someone who loves her more than life itself.

A dark feeling falls across his chest at the thought of another man's hands on her skin: another man's lips on her cheek.

His cock on her lips.

_No. She wouldn't betray him like that._

She's _perfect_.

She's _his_.

Her nod snaps him out of his reverie; hands skimming on the wheel of the bus. He may not get another chance alone with her; may not get another moment to tell her of all the things he sees in her. He deliberates palming out his poetry book, but instead grits his teeth and fists at the wheel.

"I always felt so safe here," she mutters quietly, brow quirking. "Never even thought about it."

You are safe. _You're always safe._

He doesn't say anything; just watches snow fall against the viewport as he turns through the avenues. He knows her stop too well - it's coming up, and he's running out of time.

Almost out of chances.

Her phone buzzes three times; on the third, she picks it up and jams it to her ear.

_"Hello?"_

The response is gritty - loud enough to make Paterson's hairs prick in curiosity.

_"I told you not to call me anymore, Jason. I told you that you're...Are you drunk?"_

Who the f--

 _"If you do that..."_ she grits her teeth, running a hand over her face. _"For God's sake - how many more times? Fuck off and leave me alone. I'm not going over this again."_ A pause, then louder jumbled tones. _"Because you're not listening to me! Go swanning off to California if you want, but don't you dare come by again, understood?!"_

When she hangs up forcefully, her eyes dampen. Shoulders slump forward in defeat as the street lights illuminate the snow outside.

"I'm...sorry about that."

An eerie calm floats over Paterson as he pulls down the street next to hers. No-one at this stop - thank God for that.

"Don't apologise."

Don't you ever apologise.

She sniffles, and he feels the darkness coiling in his belly.

"Jason likes to call. He's--"

"--Jason Littlewood? From the hardware store?"

 _Careful_. Lines here that can't be uncrossed.

She nods. "Yeah. We dated, few months back." She wipes her eyes with her index finger, huffing a teary laugh. "He's kind of an asshole."

He is, just a bit. Likes knocking back beers and treating his poor old mother like shit; always disappearing off on some stupid far-flung dream for months before coming back broke. Guy occasionally gets on the bus; talks on his cell nonstop about the next big thing.

Too loud, and too much.

And Paterson's never had much interest in slicing through his inanely muscular neck.

She grips the pole tight as her stop closes in; the breaks pulling on when his foot presses down. Paterson feels the loss of her already; mourning for his love, and scaldingly empty of anything else.

But the nothing is a feeling of its own, too.

The focus is like crystal clarity, and births him purpose in the dark.

"By the way," she breathes, folding up her newspaper. "You're Paterson, right?"

She knows his name; says it like any lover would.

He'd like to know what she sounds like when she gasps it.

Eyes crinkle when he smiles; drumming his fingers on the wheel.

"Yeah. And you?"

She gives him her name, and he pretends he didn't know it. Pretends this is a chance encounter.

Of course he knows it. They're in love, aren't they?

"Thank you. For just...yeah."

And as she steps off into the dark; Paterson watches her go. Watches the little wave she does, her boots making tracks in the snow that cut through it like the pulsing of blood in his veins.

The bus idles for a while, and he sucks his lip in thought.

_He's been needing new hedge shears, anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Have you ever fired your gun up in the air gone aaaggghh?"
> 
> [Come give me love on Tumblr, guys!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	3. Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She should come over for dinner.  
> He'll take good care of her.  
> Promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should definitely read the tags because this is where it goes from 60 to 360,000 in a blink
> 
> TW for drugging and...murder-related body part related murdery butchering  
> It is GRAPHIC. I am warning you this is HIGHLY DISTURBING. PLS CARE 4 URSELVES

Two weeks later: he decides it's time.

Paterson crumples the piece of paper he's ripped from the phonebook up in his palm, squaring his jaw as the line connects. The dial tone calls in, and it audibly clicks.

It's her.

Her breathy answer is full of life; soft and curious, wanting for him to follow her wherever she goes. It's the voice a lover uses in the quiet dark of the night, and Paterson knows whatever the result of the call is that he'll never stop thinking of it.

"Hi," he chews his lip, pacing as he stuffs a hand into his pocket, "hi - it's Paterson. From the bus."

"Oh, hi! How's it going?"

_Better for every moment he speaks to her._

"Great," he looks out the curtained window; watching the mid-afternoon sun kissing at the offtops, "just great. Doing a little writing..." he swallows, and forces a nervous chuckle up from his lungs. "There's no pressure here at all, but...if you'd want...look, Jim handed me your number, and I think he's hinting I should get out a little. So I was wondering if you'd...well, come to dinner with me?"

_Please._

_Say yes, dear love._

Her breathless laugh is enough to spark his wrists, and his fingers catch over the spines of the radiator as the neighbour's kid cycles by.

"I'd...I'd like that. Yeah."

His jaw tightens, corners of his plush lips turning up.

"Anywhere you hand in mind?" she asks.

Paterson chuckles, rich and dark.

"I didn't really get this far. Definitely should've picked a place. Smart move."

The line crackles, and he holds for just the briefest moment.

"You'd be welcome to come over; I've got stuff in for bolognese, if you like it."

He's sure she does.

He knows so much about her; and yet, there's so much to learn.

He'll have the time to know it all, soon enough.

"Sure! I'm trusting you here you're not some serial killer or something," she laughs, and his heart throbs.

He sees clouds on the horizon; rolling just in the distance.

"Trust me," he laughs, scraping old, dried blood from the radiator with his nail, "I'm not."

* * *

Before long; he's got the most beautiful settings.

Crystal wine glasses and a big bottle of 1997 Merlot - he sips some as he stirs in the minced beef for the spaghetti, eyes flickering over to the candles he's stuffed into bottles. Used to do this for Laura in the earlier days: set up silverware and starters and eat homemade breads. Laugh and listen to her favourite songs on the radio; scratchy thing, crackling when it'd play all that classical shit she loved.

He's not much for music, but he's got some jazz going in the background. Little things to help his love feel more at home - he knows she's artsy, and the artsy ones love Jazz.

Paterson read that somewhere.

He's ironed his favourite shirt; this navy-blue thing he buttons up with his best pants. Both easy to clean in a dark wash. Can be done in a pinch on a cold rinse, if he's needing it.

He'd never work in this one, but...

The doorbell rings, and he's blustering to the door with this smile on his lips. Because as Paterson's rough hands reach the doorhandle, he sees her illuminated in the porchlight, and on opening the door--

He's struck by her.

It's like the first day they fell for one another all over again - fumbled and soft and full of promise as she pushed change into his hands. She's striking; painted pink lips made for kissing him, and only him, each and every morning until the world turns to nothing. Black skirt and this beautiful white blouse, and these wrists he just can't help but be struck by the bony beauty of.

 _Delicate_. Strong.

_His._

"Hi Paterson," she smiles, and it's as bright as any sun he's seen.

He gestures in, and the night sky twinkles behind her.

"Hi. You're looking..." and there are no words, none he can think of, with the exception of: "so lovely."

So he guides her in with the softest wave of his hand, and the moment she crosses the threshold; everything in his power and his blood screams for him to lock the door.

Lock the door, and tell her now.

Tell her how he's loved her all his life. _Loved her every moment of his day._

_Loved her for every beat of his heart, and every throb of her pulse in this world._

But there's a time for it.

So he leaves the rusted lock alone and follows her through; guiding her to the kitchen.

 _Her_ kitchen.

"It's so homely in here," she smiles, setting down her purse on the table, "I love the paintwork."

He chuckles, moving over to give his spaghetti a stir.

"Thanks. Came with the place; I never really changed it much. At first I sort of hated it, but it grows on you."

 _She_ used to paint pretty flowers on the cabinets. Liked the swoops and whirls on every little thing she could find; printed them on canvases and books and the bare cupboard doors, as the house grew more _theirs_ and less _foreign_.

He tolerated it. Set his feelings.

_Always pushed aside._

He serves up crusty bread loves; adds butter to small dishes with garlic stirred in. Pours two glasses of wine and sets to talking with her, as the spaghetti cooks.

Sets to loving her, with tongue and thought.

"I'm so sorry about that day..." she huffs, swirling her wine. Her lips stain just the slightest bit red, and he craves to nibble at the bloodlike stain. "...everyone's got skeletons in the closet, and I guess I worried mine'd just...put you off, somehow."

Paterson chews his bread, dark hair flicking at his ears as he smiles.

"I get it. More than you might think - I really do."

"Yeah, well," she shrugs, and Paterson dishes some spaghetti into patterned bowls, "Jason's gone to fulfill his dream of being the world's biggest spanner in California. Good riddance - he wasn't doing any favours here."

Paterson's blood pounds, and he squares his jaw.

"Some people outlive their welcome at different rates."

"Amen to that."

They both fall into a rhythm of conversation as they eat, and God: he loves every inch of her. Every laugh that falls from her lips makes his heart want for her; makes his posture slowly shift to mirror hers. She asks him of his life and his work and his poetry, and he can't help but feel like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Loving her is _so simple_. So easy.

By the time they finish up, her glass is empty, and he gladly refills it by the sink - nerves spilling over to flicker in his lungs as he hands it to her.

She wrinkles her nose, but takes a gulp.

"You know when you brush your teeth and drink orange juice, and the blend of tastes is crazy weird?"

Paterson chuckles, resting his head on his wrist.

"Mmm?"

"Parmesan and this wine have the same flaw."

He sips from his glass ever so slowly; mimicking her pout.

"Huh. Strange. Could be soap in the glass."

Her eyes cloud in the candlelight; unsteady as she moves to her feet.

"I should go anyway," she smiles, leaning to the countertop for support. Paterson moves to stand; hand under her elbow as she unsteadily slumps. "I'm not feeling...so good..."

"It's alright," he chuckles, guiding her through to the living room as her feet tremble on the carpet, "I've got you. Might have had one too many."

"Ugh. Head's spinning. What's--?" she slurs, and her eyes widen.

His smile only widens, eyes sparking.

"Kept it for you. I didn't know when would be the right time; but when is, you know? I've never been good with timing, so I thought it'd be the perfect way to show you."

The sheet on the coffee table is neatly tucked in: pulled under the legs to protect the carpet from stains. He feels her weakly shiver against him; pulse skipping as she slurs something, skirt spilling when she backs against the couch. It dips under her when she whimpers, and consciousness wanes and falls in the soft light.

The tattoos on the limb are unmistakable as it lays on the table. Dried blood under the fingernails: the pliers cutting clean through sinew and bone just below the elbow. The rings he used to tap together when serving customers, muscle winding through the puckered joints on his knuckles. Already curling now; shriveling, even with attempts to stop it.

She mewls in the quiet; Paterson's fingers sifting through her hair as he sits beside her.

"I knew you'd love it," he whispers, filled with awe, "I love you, my pet."

More than anything else in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHATD I TELL YOU
> 
> [Come give me love on Tumblr, guys!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	4. Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone at last, and he couldn't be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a ROLLERCOASTER as Paterson takes us on a tour of the fucked up place in his mind.
> 
> TWs here for rape, drugging, more references to violence, murder, dismemberment. Read the tags, 'cause as you'll see in previous chapters, I really do not mince this stuff and it is in your face, so please take care

She's _exquisite_.

It works exactly as he pictured - not a detail out of place as she slumps into his arms. Her eyes flutter open and shut, hazy and clinging to consciousness that ebbs and flows the like tide pulling back. He's tried it before: measurements were off, and the sweet thing he gave it to went out cold and never woke up. But Paterson knows his love's measurements. Knows how much to give her to keep her exactly where he needs her.

Right in the in-between.

Drool forms at the corner of her mouth when he moves his arms around her waist; carefully, he sweeps her into a bridal carry and brings himself to stand. The decomposing arm on the table is a masterpiece, but one he should dispose of fairly soon. Dangerous game, leaving that out in the open.

Careless. Love is making him a careless man, and Paterson finds it hard to give a shit.

Her head lolls as she whimpers under her breath, fingers twitching and leg muscles tensing and untensing as he coos to her softly. She's pretty as a picture - his own doll, so soft and perfect and all for him. The medicine will wear off once she sleeps it out of her system, but he's ordered more than enough to keep her this calm, if she needs it. He knows she's been through so much, and he can take that all away for her. Just in case.

"You'll love the bedroom," he smiles, heart beating right out of his chest. "Painted it that colour you like. Eggshell blue was hard to find, but I've read good things. Soothing. It's really no trouble."

They cross the threshold, and Paterson can't help but admire his handiwork. A huge four-poster bed dominates the room; an antique dresser with locks on the drawers he picked up from some charity place near the library. He's tried to keep the walls clean, but found one nice abstract canvas in the basement he's had for a while. _She_ must've bought it, back when Paterson's life was out of his control.

It's nice enough, though, and he's got more than himself to think about these days.

Big old wooden shutters he's had bolted on let in just the smallest slivers of moonlight, and there's a floral desklamp on a bedside table. It's homely enough, but he's removed anything too dangerous for a while. New environments make people nervous - he doesn't want to overburden his soulmate with a thousand tiny things she might not like quite yet.

They have their whole lives to decide what they'd like this room to look like.

He smooths out the sheets and sets her down, marvelling at the way her eyes water and mascara clumps at the corners. Those little human things are what bring him the most joy, when her body limply falls back on the soft mattress.

He smooths a huge hand through her hair, nosing at her hairline as he climbs onto the space beside her.

She makes this warbling sound; timid, uncertain under the weight of her own skin. Spaces of silence exist for a while, broken by wispy breaths and noises that signify her trying to gain control of her faculties again.

"I know, sweet thing. It's a lot to take in."

But this is the part he's been dreaming of.

Careful and practiced, he hitches his fingers under the material of her blouse and pulls it up over her head, angling her arms to just pull it right off in one go. It catches just a little on her hair, and God, but he loves the way it falls so perfectly as he frees her from it.

His hands are gentle as he finds the zipper on her skirt. He has to twist the fabric to get a grip, angling under her hips to pull the thing down. He watches her throat bob, choking on a sob that splits through the air while he shimmies the waistband down.

Once he's satisfied with it, Paterson looks down in utter admiration.

In nothing but boots, a black lacy bra and this matching pair of panties - how much more perfect can she ever be to him? She's a masterpiece; painted on a canvas that is every inch made for him to love her. He must've stripped a dozen women down to their very bones; but her skin is so beautiful that he can't even imagine _working_ on her.

Her throat is just entrancing, and oh, but how he's dreamed of touching it.

His eyes drift down her body, and she is no stranger to it. Tears bead at the corners of her eyes, and the bottom of her lip trembles as she tries to slur out a word.

It's indecipherable, and that's okay.

"It's okay," he tells her, puffing a breath on her neck as he nuzzles into it. Splaying his knuckled fingers over her bare stomach, his hand wanders down her trembling form. Everywhere he touches, goosebumps prickle along her skin.

He feels her eyes roll back; movements ceasing as consciousness falls away again.

 _Perfect_.

His hand dips below the waistband of her black panties, and a finger just cautiously dips to curl around her. She's so wet - it smears like nothing across the pad of his index finger, and Paterson's lips part against her skin in this perfect, breathless want.

It's a side effect, he thinks, of the medication.

A side effect of her wanting him _this much._

"So pent up," he chuckles, taking in a shaky breath as his hard cock stirs. He's not used to this intensity: not used to wanting someone this much. "It's okay. You'll sleep better when we're done."

He dips a second finger in, and it's heaven itself.

Her eyes flutter as she stirs, groaning at the intrusion when he slides through, deeper into her cunt. He can tell by the way her fingers twitch that she's wanting him just as much as he's wanting her, and it's enough to make him lose his mind.

She'll cum so quickly, with the drugs in her system.

He'd love to have her cum on his cock - but that's all in good time. Can't rush into these things, and when they do that for the first time? God, but he wants it to be _powerful_.

"You're so beautiful, love. Not like the others."

He presses the pad of his thumb to her clit, and she makes this quiet, loving sob of frustration.

She loves him so much.

"There's never been anyone like you, love. When I heard what he did to you..." Paterson grits his teeth, fingers moving more quickly through her. "...But that doesn't matter, now. Doesn't matter."

He feels her walls fluttering - feels the way her hand just weakly tugs on his shirt, eyes rolling back as she cums all over his hand. His breathing falters, and for a moment; God, how he wishes he could wrap his hand around her throat.

No.

Not her.

Once she's cum, she's much more pliant - her body wringing out, trembling as she comes down. He knows she finds it hard to cum, but now?

He'll give her this whenever she needs it.

When she's finally moved to a fading sleep, tears drying on her face: he wipes the drool from her lips and lifts her hand. Pulls it up towards the headboard, making the chain jangle as the bolt presses into the wall. The shackles are so easy to tighten around her wrists, and they look so beautiful in compliment to her gorgeous lingerie.

Pretty as a picture.

"Just so you don't hurt yourself while I'm working," he tells her, wringing his lips. "I'll be back as soon as I can, love."

It's a burden to leave her.

A burden to move through the doorway; make his way down the hallway and descend, down old wooden steps, to the dark and dank at the base of the house.

His eyes adjust to the dark, and the _smell_. The smell is a comfort he's grown used to, in the silence and the low light. Here, there is nothing holding him to account. No need to perform, to act in a play carved out for him in the long days alone.

Here, he can _work_.

Paterson hears the chain clinking; metal on stone, as he makes his way to the swinging lightbulb.

No souvenirs down here - not anymore. Too incriminating, if he forgets about them. Hard to explain a severed hand; a broken foot. A bag of teeth.

The column of a throat.

He thinks he'll dispose of the last piece of it today.

_Celebratory._

The chain jangles violently, and he hears the pained huffs of fear. Tongues can spread lies; vocal cords can make it hard to concentrate.

He's getting better at cutting the right pieces, these days.

Paterson undoes the buttons on his favourite shirt; setting it aside on an old hook on the wall. Better shirtless than stained, even if the air is cold down here.

Stink'll cling to it, if he lets it seep into the fabric.

He plucks up his favourite knife. It's that sort of cut he's feeling like today. The slow, steady _bleed_.

"She liked the gift," Paterson murmurs, sharpening the implement as he plucks some dried blood from the handle. "Very helpful of you."

His heartbeat picks up, and oh - he does miss the _begging_ after all.

Perhaps the words aren't needed though. Words just get in the way.

Today's the time for the dripping of blood. A death that comes with as much desperation as she did, all over his fingers.

Paterson's smile is crooked in the dark, and he is finally _complete_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops my hand slipped and now it's even more fucked up
> 
> [Come give me love on Tumblr, guys!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


End file.
